Ivo
By Peter Minter
We sat by the empty road
in the first warm spring night, my wet shoulder
touching yours
it was early, or maybe late, say four a.m.
our skin cooling
after hours of dark amphetamine heat
Oxford Street quiet
but for the major thud in the wall we leaned on
It was here that I first understood
nothing in particular
words hanging in the our cool clean air
Between cool clean
cigarettes, other one after the
We sat by the empty road
& you told me how Melbourne had fucked you up
hairdressing and heroin
It was temporary in a way, you said
turning again into the amber streetlight
and I looked out too, totally quiet
but for the thought that I would remember you
And now I do, like you said I would
every time I hear the Cocteau Twins’ Treasure
your favourite and mine
and so I think of you, like you I said would
As if we are still sitting there
by the empty road, our backs against the noise of wall
in that sweet oblivion of dance
the hour after
Replete with oxygen and sense, shoulders fluorescent
against the concrete balustrade
The air that night was crackling yellow
& I think you were wearing shorts, like a late 80s ironic
roller-girl or pool-hall
bundle of bones, royal blue satin trim
almost retro